Among the Wolves of the North
by DiMick
Summary: When a wraith kills King Phillip and a wolf fails to attack Princess Emma, rumors of the Evil Queen's return begin to appear. But after 28 years, what does she want?
1. Chapter 1

My whole life, my mother's had this story about a man who wakes up, after a dream about being a frog, and doesn't know whether he's really a man, or just a frog that thinks it's a man. She always cracks it out when she's drunk and reminiscing about being on the run from the Evil Queen. Bloody stupid story, if you ask me. I mean, what frog jumps about on a daily basis wondering if it's secretly an accountant with a comb-over and bad teeth?

It's ridiculous. Everyone knows what's real and what's not - it's just that sometimes you kinda wish you didn't. Like the times when you save you a sleeping princess from a magic curse, see her true love have his soul sucked out, then traipse blindly through a forest in winter. Yeah - that's when I'd quite like it to be a dream, or a trippy kinda drug flashback. I'd even be happy finding out I'm just nuts and everyone around are patients or staff in the asylum.

It seems like this whole place is just totally made up of mud and things that want to eat me. The sole of my boot is beginning to crack with all the walking, running from side to side under the ball of my foot. It's not painful, or even properly worn out, but the damp is beginning to seep in, creeping into my socks with every step. I feel dirty, dishevelled, still in the clothes we set out in.

I just want to go home, settle down in front of a fire, and have dinner and wine brought to me.

My mother, by contrast, has taken to forest living with ease.

"It's just like being a girl again," she says, and does this happy kind of skip. The warrior from Chin, Mulan, watches her without smiling, and I know the feeling. It's the same feeling I've had my whole life – that my parents are sickeningly cringe-worthy. I know loads of people feel that way about their parents, but when your mother actually sings to bluebirds,I think you've got good reason.

Grumpy, dirty and not a little tired, I let Snow and the rest of the party pull ahead. Aurora too stays behind, her shoes and dress hardly practical in the forest. She tries to make conversation with me, supposedly explaining the history of her kingdom. I'm not sure how much she really knows - there's gaps that make no sense, and all kinds of things that just can't be true. She's been asleep for years, almost as long as I've been alive, and everything's changed about her. Her true love, when he turned up, was old enough to be her father. And then he died.

That's enough to throw anyone's history off, but her chatter is friendly enough, and I'm not about to silence her. As she talks, I allow myself just to zone out, thinking about home.

I'm thinking about the castle's bathroom, all gleaming marble and soft clean towels, and I'm not paying attention to the forest around us. The first I know of the wolf is Aurora's sharp intake of breath, and her hand closing tightly around my bicep.

I can almost see my mother's rolling eyes. _Pay attention, Emma_, she always said. _In the forest, danger is always just around the corner_.

"Shit," I say, and reach for a sword that's no longer there. I'd thrown it, in desperation, after the wraith, for all the good that did.

Aurora's behind me, my arms spread out protectively, and then the wolf is flying at us. I've never minded when dogs jump up, never flapped and squealed at their raking paws and horrid breath, but suddenly I understand those who do. The wolf's breath is rank, fetid, and its teeth are gleaming sharp. There's foam at the corners of its mouth, but I don't reckon we'll have time to worry about rabies if that jaw gets a hold of us.

We scramble backwards, but her heel catches and we go down, like human dominoes. The wolf, suddenly deprived of its target, sails over our heads and circles round.

Teeth still bared, the wolf stops two feet from my feet. His nose lifts into the air, and begins to sniff intensely at my boots. Behind me, Aurora's breathing is coming in short, sharp gasps. I reach blindly behind me, and my fingers close around the end of a fallen branch.

I brandish it in front of me, trying to ward of the wolf's advances. The wolf lifts his head, and stares unblinkingly into my face. It feels like it's searching for something, but that's crediting the animal with too much intelligence. This might be the Enchanted Forest, but a wolf's a wolf's a wolf.

I poke the branch forward again, trying to seem as threatening as I can with my arse in the mud, and a frightened princess quivering behind me.

Footsteps crashing through the undergrowth let me know that Mulan, Snow and the guards have finally caught on and I swear, in that instant, the wolf smiles. Like, actually smiles. Then it turns and slopes off into the bushes, leaving barely a rustle behind.

"What the hell?" I ask, out loud.

"That was the Queen's wolf," Mulan says, her voice flat. The others exchange knowing glances, but I'm still in the dark.

"Which one? There's hundreds of them lying about this place." I mean, to start with there's two princesses and a queen crammed into this one forest clearing.

Mulan ignores me, and carries on.

"Snow, your daughter should be its enemy. So why leave them be?"

"You mean, like, the Evil Queen? The whole 'I will destroy your happiness' queen?" The woman is clearly a walking cliché. She's got poisoned apples, magic transportation, some really snappy one-liners if the history books are to be believed, and now wolves. It wouldn't surprise me if she had legions of flying monkeys and possessed bats or something as well.

"I don't know." My mother ignores me completely, frowning off into the undergrowth. I'm not even worried about that: the fact is, they have no idea why her enemy's servant saved my life. Nor do I, and the memory of that lupine grin sends a shiver up my spine.

All day as we walk I keep catching glimpses through the trees of the wolf following us. Hovering at a close distance, it disappears whenever I turned to face it straight on, like something out of a ghost story. No-one else seems to have noticed its presence, and so I too ignore it.

Eventually we stop and make camp, and Snow sends me into the wildwood to find firewood.

"Here," she says, "take this, just in case," and hands me her sword. I heft it across my shoulder, and nod, grinning. I've turned and am walking further into the forest as she calls after me.

"And for god's sake don't just throw it!"

I laugh, and don't look back. The trees grow close, and the tangled undergrowth crowds up their trunks. It's dark in here, but I don't feel threatened. It's not like when bard's tell my Mom's story and the trees pluck and catch at her clothes. The worst thing I see, in fact, is a squirrel and unless they're totally different here to at home, I'm not too concerned.

And then, there it is. The wolf. Like it knew I'd be coming. Somehow, I'm not overly concerned about that, either.

Stood by its side is a boy of no more than ten or so. He's shorter than you'd think, his brown hair wild. His arms and legs are matchstick thin, but his clothes are of good cloth, and his hand is curled into the thick fur at the scruff of the wolf's neck.

"Hey again, wolf," I say, and can't quite keep the tremble from my voice. My grip shifts on the sword, ready to hit out if I have to. I don't know much about complicated swordplay, as the whole wraith thing showed, but I figure a decent swing would do quite a bit of damage.

Neither wolf nor boy move, just stand and stare. I don't move either, and we stand silently as time stretches out between us. Eventually, it seems I will have to make the first move.

"Why aren't you, you know, killing me?"

The wolf growls, lowly, in response.

"You smell of her, of the Queen," the boy translates.

"I smell of her?" The idea is vaguely offensive. I'm sure she doesn't smell bad - in all the stories she's massively image conscious - just... I don't wanna smell of anyone, really.

The wolf makes more noises, and the boy spreads his hands.

"Not of her. Just, like her." He looks at the wolf for confirmation, frowning at the difficulty of this task. "It's the same smell, but different. It's hard to describe, in human terms." The wolf growls more, and the boy laughs before clapping his hand to his mouth.

"You smell like her pack mate," he says, "like her family."

"She was married to my grandfather," I say, and the boy smiles. His tone suggests the wolf meant something else, but for now I'm happy to leave it at face value.

"He wants you to know that as the Queen's family, you will not be harmed by the creatures of this place, or those ahead."

Together they turn, the boy still holding onto the wolf, and head towards the clearing's edge. Just before they disappear, the boy turns back, and raises a hand in farewell.

"Till we meet again," he says, and is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

"Do I smell to you?" I ask, holding my hands out to our travelling companions.

"Is this normal behaviour, where you come from?" Mulan asks Snow.

My mother shakes her head, and then sends me her most reproving look. It's one she's had plenty of chances to perfect over the years, and I know exactly what it means. It means that I need to remember my lessons, need not to be me. I'd be happy if I never saw a dress again - but the accident of my birth means that court etiquette, and ballroom dancing, and politics is an everyday part of my life.

I used to think, when I was younger, that I'd prefer a life out on the road. A bounty hunter, perhaps. The idea of being on my own, of never stopping in one place for long, of bouncing from place to place, carried on the back of the winds, had always appealed. No parents, no responsibilities, no politics. I'd even got as far as packing several times, and once had saddled the horse, but then it was dinner time, or my mother found me, or a pretty chamber maid winked in my direction. But that kind of life requires a lot of travelling, and my feet right now are telling me that's a definite no-go.

So I roll my eyes in acceptance, and shift closer to the campfire. The heels of my boots are propped on a stone, as close to the flames as I dare. My companions are sat either side of me, and Aurora, rolled already into blankets, lays within a hands' span of the warrior woman. Earlier, although I tried to ignore it, her breaths came in whimpers, her sobs barely restrained.

"Is he really gone?" Mulan keeps her voice low, but we need no further words to know who she means. My mother nods, and pokes despondently at the fire.

"Yes. Imagine that," she says, "for Phillip to search all those years for her, only then to die." Her poking sends sparks and ashes floating into the night sky, and I watch, unconcerned, as they settle harmlessly on my toes. "Phillip's been a friend for years, and he never gave up on her. I never thought..." She trails off. She's grieving, I know, for her friend. But also for Aurora, for true love denied, and for how easily that could have been her own fate.

"I thought there were no more wraiths," I say. "I thought the last disappeared with Rumplestiltskin."

"We all thought so." My mother looks fiercer than I ever remember, her forehead wrinkled in thought. "And then there's the wolf. It's all connected somehow, I'm sure of it. It must be the Queen."

"Your majesty, if she was your step-mother," Mulan says, "isn"t she an old woman by now? Surely her hate and power has burnt out." My mother and I turn to her together.

"Never underestimate a witch," we say. It's a phrase that's been drilled into me since birth. There's other dire warnings too - about hate that never burns out, about seduction and deception.

"Regina would have to be at least sixty. She was eight or so years older than me." I can almost see the sums in Snow's head, watch as she assesses the threat. "But magic isn't like strength or speed, it doesn't fade with age. If she really is on the move again, we need to be very careful."

My mother looks at me, and I know that she's remembering how close she was to losing me. Her hand comes across, and rests warmly on my knee. I shift awkwardly under the weight of her love, under the weight of that destiny never fulfilled.

"Tomorrow we'll reach the town. From there, we'll be back in no time. We tell your father and the others about the wraith, and the wolf."

The campfire dies slowly, and finally Mulan stands.

"I'd get up if I were you, Princess," she says. "The soles of your boots are melting."

In the morning, I wake stiff and uncomfortable. As the camp stirs we waste no time, the determination to share our information shining in my mother's eyes. To be honest, I'm equally keen to get out of the forest, but I'm not sure my motivations are so pure. The crick at the bottom of my neck won't shift, no matter how many times I roll my shoulders or twist my head.

The crack in my sole only widens as we walk, and my steps are uneven and unsteady on my half-melted heels. By mid-morning we reach the old high road, and at least the cobbled stones are dry. Slowly the stream of traffic picks up, and soon we're part of the crowd that's heading for the town. It seems we've made it on market day, and while my mother waits for the horses at the guard station, I take myself off to look for a new pair of boots.

It doesn't take long before I've found a pair that fit. The leather is soft and well coloured, and the soles seem sturdy enough.

"And you're sure they won't crack in a week?"

"Of course not, your highness. These are elven made." I press the coin into his hand, and push my old boots from my feet. Leaning against the stall for balance, I turn back towards the crowd and catch a glimpse of a retreating head of brown hair and twiggy limbs.

It's the boy, the wolf's translator. I know it. Without evidence or reason, I know it.

I'm off, running across the market place, my new boots still in my hand. Both my socks are wet and cold, and the cobbles are hard and painful under my feet.

"Boy! Wait!" He doesn't turn or stop, and I race after him. I dart between stalls, drawing incredulous looks from the shoppers all around me. The way their mouths hang open, you'd think they'd never seen a barefoot princess before.

He turns a corner, and the line of sight is broken. Only a few seconds go by before I'm there myself, leaning on the corner of the building and panting, but he's gone. The only doorway seems to lead into some kind of inn. There's a weathered and peeling sign hung above the door, but it's so faded as to be illegible.

The decor inside is hardly better. The floor is covered in sawdust, wet patches clumping together where patrons have spilled their drinks, or their bladders, or worse. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, and hastily pull on the new boots.

The bar's customers stare at me as I walk in, and my hand clutches around my purse reflexively. I scan their faces, looking for the boy.

He's in the corner, sat at a table, a mug of drink in front of him. I move around the corner of the room, trying not to draw any more attention than my clothes and hair will draw any way. I can't chance him running. He looks up as I slide into the chair opposite, face blank. For a moment I think he doesn't recognise me, and I worry I've got the wrong boy.

The he speaks, and I know I haven't.

"How did you find me?" he asks, and I shrug.

"I'm good at finding people, I guess." I wave to the bartender, and order two meals. We sit in silence till they come, but he makes no move to leave.

The food is placed in front of us. His eyes are comically wide as he falls on the food, ripping chunks from the bread and cheese. I watch, my own plate untouched, until he's almost done.

"You gonna tell me, then," I say, "who sent you to me in the woods?" He eyes my plate hungrily, and I push it towards him, encouraging.

He's about to speak, I can tell, mouth opening around his food. He's stopped by a hand, long nailed and clean, falling on his shoulder.

"I think the one to be speaking to," says a voice, "is me."


	3. Chapter 3

Even in the dingy bar, her figure is silhouetted against the light streaming in from the doorway. It makes it hard, at first, to see any defining features. The boy looks up at her, and swallows, thickly. His hands close around his plate, clutching at the uneaten food.

"You can take it with you," she says, and her voice sends my stomach into knots. The boy moves, food and mug disappearing with him, and the woman instead takes his seat.

Her clothing marks her out as a gypsy, a fortune teller, and the beads lining her bodice tap together as she moves. She's my age, dark haired and tanned, and as attractive as her voice suggests.

My mouth is suddenly dry, and I fight the urge to straighten my shirt, to fiddle with my hair. With force of will that my parents and tutors would be proud of, I keep my hands solidly on the table.

"You're asking dangerous questions, Your Highness."

"I don't tend to ask questions I don't have to," I say. It's true. I want to ask, right now, how she knows who I am, but there's a hundred ordinary explanations. My face is hardly unknown across the kingdom, and the town is abuzz with our arrival.

"So ask, then. And I will answer the questions you simply have to know."

"In the forest," I begin, unsure of how to explain, "there was a wolf. It refused to attack me, and then later that boy said it was because I smelt."

"Even animals have standards, dear," she says, "and no-one wants to eat rancid food. Perhaps you should bathe more often."

"No – he said I smelt like her. Like a family member."

"Were those the words he used?"

"The boy said it was difficult to translate. But yeah, that was what he meant." She looks down, apparently amused. "What does it mean?"

She stands, leaves the boy's chair, and moves into the one next to mine. Her voice is low, designed not to carry. It feels intimate, and at this distance she's even more distracting.

"It's common knowledge now that wolves have returned to the forest, and an old woman said that she'd even seen the Huntsman." That last part is delivered slow and heavy, as though it should mean something. I nod, as if I understand, and hope I can remember enough for my parents to decode the message. "There's rumors, too, of a castle made of ice, far to the north. It's out on the frozen floes, and was built for a troll king. But he lost his heart, and his kingdom, they say, to a returning witch."

"You mean the Evil Queen, Regina." Her eyebrows quirk upwards, and a small half-smile flits briefly across her face. She takes my hand, holding it palm up in hers. Her fingertips trace its lines, lightly, and I shiver. I almost imagine I feel warmth spreading up my arm, travelling through my veins, radiating from her touch. _Don't be ridiculous_, I tell myself. _Over-romanticizing never leads anywhere good_.

"Very clever, princess." The tone is patronizing, mocking, but there's some kind of fond amusement there as well. "But she's no threat to you."

"And you know this because…." I leave the sentence hanging, waiting for a response. She only smiles, and returns her gaze to my hand.

"Just rumors, dear," she says, and shrugs.

"There must be more to her return. Why now? And how is it connected to the wraith?"

Her hand stills against mine.

"Wraith?" Her eyes are sharp, hard, and her grip tightens uncomfortably. "What wraith?"

I'm reminded that I know nothing of this woman. I don't know who or what she is, or where her loyalties lie. After all, she gave orders to the wolf's boy, and the wolf belonged to the Queen.

"You haven't heard the rumors?" I ask. "I thought they were your stock in trade."

She swallows, convulsively. Her gaze is fixed on the middle distance, lips moving silently.

"Not now," she mutters, "it can't be now." She seems to have forgotten my hand in hers, but her fingers stay sitting on my palm, unmoving. There's silence for a minute, until I shift in my seat, searching for something witty to say.

The movement brings her back to her senses, and she looks around, suddenly wary.

"If it's true, as you say, you have a lot more to worry about than an old witch's return."

I've always prided myself on my ability to spot a liar, and there's something off. In her gaze, perhaps, or her tone. I'm certain I'm not being told the full story, and I would press her on it, force her to tell me the truth. But then she leans in, pressing her lips against my ear. She's so far forwards that her chest presses against my own, soft and pliant. I'm overcome, suddenly, with a vision of her, caught in the throes of passion. I'm so caught up in my imaginings, that I barely catch her words.

"Watch yourself out there, Princess." She slides from the table, crossing the floor quickly. The crowd part easily for her, as though moved by invisible hands. By the time I've got my loins in control and my brain back in gear, she's gone.

I stand hurriedly, leaving coin on the table for the meals. Fighting through the crowd, I catch a glimpse of her cloak disappearing around the corner. I run to catch up, almost frantic in my desperation.

When I get round the corner, she's there, leaning against the wall. She's waiting for me, eyebrow cocked.

"Another question you _have_ to ask?"

"What's your name?" It's little more than a breath, and I kick myself for not sounding more confident, more assertive, more in control. The smirk that covers her face shows that she knows full well the effect she has on me, and she leans in, her voice low and sultry.

"I'm afraid that's an answer I don't have to give," she says, her lips inches from mine. My heart hammers in my chest, and my feet seem rooted to the spot. "I'm a friend, that's all you need to know."

She kisses me, then, her lips firm against mine, her hand – for the briefest moment – resting on my hip. This time, when my heart calms, the woman is nowhere in sight.


	4. Chapter 4

Over breakfast, the day of the emergency council meeting, my mother lays down the law.

While her guests are here there's to be no hunting (dangerous and time consuming), no drinking (unladylike), and definitely, under no circumstances whatever, no seducing the servants.

"And while we're on that subject, Emma," she says, "I think your father and I have been very tolerant, very patient with you. We've turned a blind eye to your little affairs. We even covered up that _incident_. She'll find someone, I said, she'll calm down, get married, have a family. But you haven't, and you're only getting older…" The servants moving around the table are going slowly, hoping to hear as much gossip as possible.

"Oh god, Mom. You really wanna do this now?" As my head hits the table, my mother's jaw hardens.

"Tell her, James. Perhaps she'll listen to you."

"Sweetie, your mother's right. We only want what's best for you, and for you to be happy, but…"

"There's the kingdom to consider, Emma, and succession. Do you really think that some servant's _bastard_ can be our next king?" Her words fall into dead silence, and she knows she's pushed too far.

I stand back from the table, the chair's legs scraping unpleasantly across the floor. I turn my back, and storm across the hall. Behind me, my father sighs.

"Really, Snow…"

The door's too heavy to bang satisfactorily, but I slam the heels of my boots against the tiles and the sound they make with every step seems to adequately relay my anger.

The council meeting is no less tense. I'm called before them to recount my experiences with the wolf and the gypsy, stood like a naughty child in front of the schoolmaster, waiting to be punished. I leave out the whole kissing thing. There's some things that your parents and their friends really just don't need to know. Especially in a formal are-we-going-to-war kind of situation, you know?

"And you have no idea where the boy, or the gypsy woman went?" The oily voice makes my skin crawl, as does its owner: Adam, lord of the Summerlands, and some kind of relation. He's the reason, in part, my mother is so keen on me settling down. Without an heir, without surety of succession, Adam becomes second in line to the throne.

"No, I don't. I was – distracted, and she disappeared into the crowd."

"And what, pray, had you so distracted that you completely failed to watch the world around you?" My mother shifts in her chair, and begins to protest. Queen Jasmine of the east holds up her hand, forestalling any argument.

"Let the girl speak, Snow," she says. "I think we'd all like to know." I move my weight from foot to foot, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

"She kissed me." Snide titters run through the council, no doubt congratulating themselves that at least their heirs were better than Snow White's scandalous daughter.

"Oh _Emma_." My mother's voice is full to breaking with disappointment, and I can't bring myself to meet her eyes.

"And by the time you managed to get your raging hormones under control, she was gone?" Adam's voice is smug, now, and I feel my hand clenching into a fist in shame and embarrassment.

"Something like that," I mutter.

And then they kick me out. Thank-you very much your Highness, come back when you have more self-control than a dog in heat. Those aren't the words they use, exactly, but it's the unspoken meaning.

It's not a fair assessment of my character, all things considered. They won't let me work or fight, and I'm no good at proper, lady-like activities. I can't spin or sow or knit. I can't sing to birds and plants just die under my hands.

What else is there left for me to do, really, except drink and amuse myself. But royalty, you see, is held to higher standards.

I scuff my feet along the floor of the corridor, watching as the carpet rucks and bunches around the toe of my new boots. I'm talking myself into a full blown rage, when the door to the council chambers opens. I expect it to be some kind of official delegation, but Red Riding Hood closes the door softly behind her, like she's slipped out, unnoticed.

She sees me stood there, and smiles, softly.

"Don't you worry about them, Em," she says. "You know that Lord Adam is just trying to manipulate things for his own good. No-one thinks the worse of you for it." It's a lie, but a kind one.

I sit, heavily, on one of the benches that line the corridor. Red sits down beside me, and I turn to face her.

"What the wolf said – that I smelt like the queen – what did it mean? The gypsy never actually answered me."

"I don't know. It's hard to tell, just through repeating it." She scratches at the back of her neck. "I mean, children smell like their parents, when they're young. And married couples, who share a bed and a bathroom, they come to smell like each other, in time. But to smell like someone you've never met?"

She shrugs. We sit in silence for a moment, each apparently lost in our own thoughts.

"Did my mom send you out to check on me?" She shakes her head. "My dad?"

"No, Em. I thought you could use a friend, and I know what it's like to have that lot constantly judging you."

"Thanks Red," I say. "I think I'm gonna go and find something…princess-like to do."

She smiles and waves. At the end of the corridor, I hear her voice call out to me.

"Stay out of trouble!"

The castle is in uproar, as it always is when the council is in session. The visiting royals need to be housed, fed and entertained, and the same for the armies of staff they bring with them. I find my usual partner in crime, Pinocchio, barking orders to footmen as they arrange the formal dining room to accommodate so many extra guests.

"Hey you," he says, distractedly looking at the seating plan, "council meeting go well?"

"It was an absolute fucking disaster," I say. His lists fall to his side, and for a moment I'm the focus of his undivided attention. "It was just…."

A loud crash makes us both jump, and we turn to see the cause. A gormless-looking footman is stood gaping senselessly at an empty cutlery canteen, its silver contents laying sprawled about his feet.

I can see the conflict on Pinocchio's face as his friendship with me and his duty as my parents' steward war for his attention.

"It's OK, Noke. I'll tell you later."

The glass doors into the castle's grounds stand open, cool air blowing through the room, settling the drapes and tapestries fluttering. The day is bright and fresh, the epitome of spring, and I know that I'll be in no-one's way in the gardens.

I wander through the formal planting, down green corridors of yew that stretch high over my head. They form straight lines, leading away from the palace at increasing angles, splayed like a sunrise. Right down the middle there's a long, still canal, where swans float elegantly across the surface.

My mother would prefer a more wild scheme – all grasses and reeds, with wild flowers and shelters for birds and hedgehogs – but these gardens are the one visible legacy of her step-mother's that remain.

I twist and turn between the rows, making my way out towards the walled edge. Here, between the plants, it's quiet and peaceful, and they say that when my grandfather remarried, the newly-wed queen would spend hours out here, walking the gardens in silent contemplation.

Finally, I reach the particular point in the hedge that I'm looking for. I brush away the hanging ivy to reveal a concealed door. It wasn't always covered – when I was a child my mother had given this part of the gardens to me for my own use. The gardeners had encouraged me to plant vegetables and flowers, to grow useful things for the castle kitchens. I liked being out here, but by the next week I'd have forgotten my seedlings, and they'd be lift to wilt and wither away.

My favourite spot in my walled garden has always been the apple trees. My mother was going to have them cut down, the gardeners and cooked protested saying that they produced the sweetest and crunchiest apples in a hundred mile radius.

In summer, I used to climb the branches and, hidden by the green canopy, while away the hours with a book, or a whittling knife, humming songs to myself, unobserved by those passing below. In autumn, when the fruits are ripe, I used to spend happy hours picking the low hanging fruit from the trees, and took delight filling up barrows, feeling helpful. In the spring, like now, the trees are full of sweet-scented blossom that falls like confetti in the slightest breeze.

I climb the tree, settling myself into my favourite branch, leg hanging down, and close my eyes and rest. I must fall asleep, for the next thing I know there's tugging on my foot. I open my eyes, and bring my hand up to wipe the corners of my mouth dry.

"Your highness," the man says, "your mother the queen and the council request your presence."

I slide from the tree, falling to land at his feet in a crouch. It's unlady-like, I'm sure, and the long stream of etiquette tutors my mother subjected me to would all roll their eyes in disgust. But this is my garden, and in it I do what I want.

Together, the servant and I make our way back to the castle. At the doors, he stops and gestures for me to proceed him. Crossing the threshold, I stop, and turn back.

"Do you know what they want me for?"

He bows in acknowledgement.

"I believe, Princess, that they have a knight's quest with your name on it."


	5. Chapter 5

Even through the chamber's doors, I can hear the council arguing. I pause at the entrance, my hand on the doorknob, and take a few steadying breaths. The door swings open easily, and I move into the room. All round, suddenly, the council members fall quiet.

My mother is the only one not looking at me, but sits and bites her nails worriedly. My father has his hand on her back, rubbing in soothing circles. He smiles, and I know it's supposed to be reassuring, comforting, but it's not.

"Your highness," the spokesman is the duke of a neighbouring land, a man known for long-winded speeches, "you have been recalled before this council on a matter of the utmost importance. We, the members of this council, have decided that the rumours concerning the reappearance of the wraith and wolves, as reported by yourself, warrant further investigation." I try to stop myself rolling my eyes in frustration, and others must feel that way too.

"Go north, to the ice, and confirm for yourself that your little gypsy's rumours are true." Adam's interjection draws angry glances from the other councillors, but no-one speaks up.

The duke tuts, loudly, and seems to ignore him.

"To that end, your highness, we propose that you venture north to ascertain these rumours' veracity." The frustrated sighs of the other assembled royals finally seem to register in his awareness, as he stops short, and sighs. "You can take a companion, of course."

I nod my understanding, clasping my hands behind my back. I open my mouth to speak.

"Now, Emma," my mother interrupts, "you don't have to accept." She stands, and paces behind her chair. "This is very dangerous. We have no real information to go on, and the Queen must not be underestimated. No-one will think worse of you for it."

That's the second time today someone's lied to me, meaning to be kind. Where I let Red's slide, inconsequential as it was, I know that to reject the council's call would be to shame myself, and my family. And in ten or twenty years time, when I'm no longer the princess but the queen, what then?

"My lords and ladies," I say, turning to take in the whole council. A semi-circle of blank faces stare back at me, broken only by Red's encouraging smile. "I accept your quest. I will go north, and find the truth of these rumours."

I step forward, in front of my mother, and fall to my knees, adopting the formal pose. I clasp my hands together, as though in prayer, and hold them out to her.

"I swear on my faith, to all assembled, that I will serve this council to the fullness of my ability, that I will not allow myself to be distracted or diverted, and that I will keep the secrets of the council at all costs."

My mother takes my hands in acceptance, and nods, silently. The act and oath over, the council leave their seats and the room, until there's only the three of us left.

"That was bravely done, Emma," my mother says, and pulls me to my feet. "Here, I've something I suppose you'll need to see."

My father and I follow her down corridors, into the ceremonial armoury. This is where the kingdom keeps the most special, most ornate, weapons and armour. In the corner stands my mother's full official regalia, embossed with gold spirals leaf inlays. My father's dragon-slaying sword is suspended on the wall, scales from its victim embedded on a nearby helmet.

The weapons of conquered foes are here, too – the grinning masks of warriors from Chin, the curving scimitars of pirates, barbed arrows and ridged daggers – all line the walls and fill the glass-fronted display cabinets. The most secure cabinet, of course, is protected by more than a lock, with warding charms carved across its surface. It gives me chills as we pass, the evil-looking blade lying malevolently on its cushion, the owner's name still enscribed.

At the back of the room stands a large wardrobe, rather plain and unassuming, apart from its size. There's no lock on the door, just a latch, and I wonder what it holds.

"Here," she says, throwing open the cabinet. "I had this made for you, years ago. And then, well, there was – you know…"

"The incident."

"Yes. After that, it didn't seem you'd be going on any honour quests." I feel the tension rise in me, out of instinct, but I know that's not how she intended it.

She steps aside. There, on a sturdy mannequin, sits a sculpted cuirass. I reach out, and trail my fingers along its surface, tracing the ridges and lines of the idealised musculature. There's vambraces, too, and matching greaves.

It's as practical as it is attractive, designed in true heroic mode.

"Try it on," my mother urges. She beckons for a servant, and they lift the cuirass off the mannequin. It sits snugly on my hips, resting lightly across my shoulders, the sleeves of my shirt billowing out across the shoulders. The leather straps tighten around my waist, and the rest of the armour is strapped to me.

It fits, perfectly.

"It'll protect you from any sword slash. But you need to careful of straight thrusts, especially at your back and sides, and your upper legs and arms aren't covered." She's rambling, and breathes to steady herself, reaching out to curl her fingers under the vambrace's edge. She won't let herself say it, but she's worried.

"Wear that to dinner tonight," my father says, "and you'll set their tongues wagging with jealousy."

I wait for the admonition from my mother, to be told, again, for the need to be feminine, and lady-like. But nothing comes. Instead she nods, and breaks out into an infectious grin.

"Charming," she says, "for once, that's an excellent idea."

They leave, then, arm in arm. I stand for a moment longer, admiring my reflection in a nearby mirror. I look – and there's no other word for it – heroic. I pull a short sword from the wall, not daring to move my father's, and threaten my reflection, who growls back at me.

"How very fearsome you look, highness," says a voice from the doorway. I freeze, halfway through a lunge, and slowly lower the sword to my side. My face flushes with heat, and I turn slowly.

"It's you." It's not a particularly inspired statement, but it's all I can think of to say. The gypsy woman moves further into the room, closing the door behind her. She leans against the wood, hands trapped behind her body, while I stutter helplessly. You'd think, with my family and years of education all designed to bolster my confidence and social graces, I'd have no problem imagining something witty and, well, _charming_ things to say.

When I don't say anything else, just stand gaping like a stranded fish, she smiles, knowingly, one eyebrow raised.

"It suits you, the armour. Very noble." She reaches out her hand, and traces the contours of the cuirass just as I had done. Now I'm in it, however, the metal feels more like an extension of myself, and I wish the barriers separating her hand and my chest away. It doesn't help my raging blush any, and I try to step back and away, putting some space between us.

"What are you doing here?"

"I heard about your quest," she says, and I blink. News travels fast, apparently. Even news from a sealed and private council meeting. "I brought you this."

She holds out something towards me. It's a small, flat glass pebble of some kind, bound with a leather thong. It looks unremarkable, and my confusion must show clearly on my face.

"It's imbued, Princess, with a protection charm. Cheap magic, but still." She moves closer, lifting the charm around my neck. Her face is close enough to mine to reach out, and catch her lips with my own.

"I heard about your quest," she repeats, voice lower than it was before, "and if you insist on chasing the queen – even though she is no threat to you – you need protection, and this is what I can give."

Her hands move to push the charm under my armour and shirt, flush against my skin. Her fingertips trail lightly across my neck, sending shivers and goosebumps along my arms.

I want to reach out to her, to crush her against me, to kiss her as though her beauty, charm and mystery could be transferred to me. But then I remember my oath not to get distracted, and so I only smile, timidly, yet cannot prevent my eyes from slipping.

As she turns to leave, on impulse I catch her hand.

"Stay," I say. "For the dinner. Please."

"I can't, your highness. Even as you put the cat among the pigeons with that outfit." Her smile, this time, is almost feral in its savage pleasure.

At the door, she raises her hand in farewell.

"Till we meet again," she says, and I'm left alone in the armoury, sword held in one hand, the other pressed above my heart.


	6. Chapter 6

All night I toss and turn, restless with dreams. My sheets ruck up under me, exposing the scratching surface of the mattress. Eventually, I sit up, throwing the covers back. The cool air whistles across my legs, and I shiver in the moonlight. I stand, and cross to the window, leaning against the stone sill, arms crossed. The gardens in the twilight seem surreal, like I'm gazing out onto another realm. My thoughts are overly fanciful, and not at all like me. I know it's only nerves, that knot of tension stretched tight between my stomach and feet.

I shake myself, and push the sheets back across the bed. I lie there, unsleeping, till the dawn began creeping through the window panes, and I hear the movements of servants in the corridor.

"Emma," my mother says over breakfast, "did you not sleep at all?" I shake my head, ruefully. I rub my eyes with my fingers, and barely conceal a yawn.

"God, I could sleep for a week."

"I guess that will make the walking harder, Princess," says the warrior from Chin, Mulan.

I turn to stare at the woman behind me, my forehead wrinkling as I take in her travelling clothes.

"We thought Mulan would be a good companion for you on your quest," says my father.

"I thought I could choose my own companion."

"You can, Emma - your mother and I were just making a suggestion."

"Who would you pick then?" My mother's voice is hard, angry that I'm questioning her choice.

I wave my hand, expansively, trying to think.

"I dunno - I have friends..."

"I hardly think your drinking companions are quest-worthy. And Pinocchio cannot be spared." I nod, in resignation, accepting the point. Standing back from the table, I hold a hand out warningly to my new companion.

"You can come - on one condition."

Her face stays impassive, thoughts concealed behind a mask. I don't know if she wants to come, or has been forced. Her demeanour is polite, tidy, respectful in the presence of royalty.

"Yes, Princess?"

I lean towards her, whispering low in her ear.

"You stop damn calling me Princess."

xXx

The next two days are a whirl of activity, as Mulan and I prepare for our trip. Well, at least, there seems to be a whirlwind of activity around me. I am rushed from tailor to cobbler, from one suspiciously unhelpful 'advisor' to the next. I am rushed through sword drills and extra riding lessons, I'm force fed the history of the northern lands, and learn to distinguish the footfalls of a troll from a white bear. Meanwhile, my companion seems to stay unnoticed and undisturbed, practicing slow sword movements in the gardens.

"It's not fair," I complain, disliking the whine that creeps into my voice. It reminds me of being a child, powerless, begging my mother for permission. "Why doesn't Mulan have to put up with any of this crap?"

"Mulan is a highly accomplished warrior," my mother says, "she needs no further training." I feel a reprimand in her words, even if it was unintended, and shift away restlessly. She catches my hand, pulls me back to face her, and smiles with the side of her mouth. "Besides, you're the one whose quest this is."

And so I bite my lip, and wait out the rest of the fussing and preparation.

The last expert brought to see me is the court mage. He sidles into the room, clasping spell books and charms under his arm. He seems distracted, unshaven, and there's a wine stain down the front of his robes. Even the guard at the door wrinkles his nose in disgust as the old man passes.

He hands me a few bottled lotions – for healing, to fight infection – standard provisions for a council quest. Then he steps back, and flips through his spell books.

"Your mother has requested a protection charm," he says. "Not a bad idea, considering the object of your adventures."

He finds the page he's looking for, and squints at the ink on the page. I try to peer over his shoulder, but after a second the words shift and squirm under my gaze, writhing like a nest of snakes.

"Yes yes," he says, running a finger down the page, "protection against ill willed magic. It wouldn't stop the Evil Queen, of course, but you should have no trouble with trolls and goblins and the like."

He begins to chant under his breath, lips moving, brow furrowed in concentration. A grey mist begins to form around his hands, coiling around him. Then the mist reaches out along the floor towards me, gathering in volume and shape with every passing second. Slowly, it rises up my legs, past my waist and elbows. It doesn't feel like anything, not a whisper of air on my skin at all, and I hold myself rigid inside the cloud.

The mage smiles and nods at me, reassuringly.

"Almost there, your Highness," he says. But then something at my neck burns white hot for a moment, my vision blurs, and when I blink my eyes clear, the mage is collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath.

I rush to his side, crouching down next to him, hand reaching out to his shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

He nods, shakily, and sits up, one hand pressed to the side of his head. His hands reach out to me, heading for the open neck of my shirt. I start to pull back, confused, but he clasps hold of the gypsy's glass pebble, almost forgotten around my neck.

"Where did you get this?" His voice shakes with the question, and his hands too flutter unsteadily at my throat.

"It was a gift," I say, wary, "from a friend." His eyes hold my own, piercing, willing me to tell him _who_, exactly.

"Some friend, your Highness," he says, when no answer comes, "to give a gift such as this."

"She said it was cheap magic, almost a toy." He laughs, and drops the pendant.

"No – this is powerful magic. Strong magic, far greater than I could conjure." He stands up, hands clutching at the table for balance. "You have powerful friends. I can only hope your enemies are not as fierce."

He gathers his books and leaves the room, robes whipping around the door frame and out of sight.

Eventually, we're ready.

Outside in the courtyard our horses stand saddled and waiting, moving from foot to foot with impatience. There's a frost in the air, despite the early date, and their breaths curl away from them in white clouds. Steam rises too from their flanks, and I watch Mulan shiver down into her fur-lined cloak.

"It'll only get colder as we go north," I say, and she glares at me, fidgeting with the fingers of her gloves. Chuckling, I allow the groom to boost me into position, using his joined hands as a springboard to the saddle.

Once we're both mounted a fanfare sounds from atop the castle walls. The council members bow to us, and we to them, and then the gates open and the horses move forward, thundering across the bridge and away.

We ride for days at a steady pace, stopping only once to ford a stream and let the horses drink. My companion is silent for the most part, and as we ride, the land around begins to change. The trees thin, and the grasses change from the lush green of my homeland to paler, sharper stems, covering the fields with brown, wide open and flat.

By evening on the fourth day, the forest feels well behind us. The horizon stretches out ahead, and even the clothing of the people we meet on the road is different. The men are in dark, tight-fitting breeches and jackets, with brightly covered waistcoats underneath. The women match their men-folk, in long, heavy skirts with checked aprons, and highly embroidered shirts and waistcoats, complicated flowers and woodland designs growing from their hems. They nod at us as we pass, eyes lingering especially on Mulan's exotic armour, her hair and weapons, but no-one stops us or speaks.

The night falls quickly, darkness closing around us frighteningly fast. In the distance, I can see the lights of a coaching tavern, winking invitingly.

"Stop there for the night?" I ask, and my companion nods.

The tavern is like any other I've stayed in, and the clientele much the same. We find ourselves a table, and order food and wine. As Mulan watches the door, expression unreadable, I scan the bar for any familiar faces. It's pointless, I know, but I just can't help the feeling that my gypsy should be there. My hand drifts unconsciously to the pendant at my neck, and I wonder just when she became _my_ gypsy.

In the morning I press the barkeep for information.

"Do you know of a castle, made entirely of ice?" The man shakes his head, thumbs stuck into the pockets of his jacket.

"None of that round here," he says, "the ice doesn't last much beyond the new year. You might try the widow Gunnhild, three days north of here. She's full of useless knowledge, that one."

We ride out, both seemingly lost in thought. My hand keeps drifting to my necklace, the mystery of the gypsy and her powerful gift still unsolved. At least, that's what I tell myself I'm remembering, but the fact is that every time I search my memory for clues, all I can focus on is her the press of her lips against my own, her hand on my hip.

I'm ripped from the pleasantness of my memory by Mulan's voice, calling from off the trail.

"Princess! Over here!"


	7. Chapter 7

I guide the horse off the road, splashing through stagnant ditch water, and out on the frosted field beyond. Mulan is stood, one hand still clutching her reins, staring at a tree. At first I see nothing special about it, nothing to hold her attention for so long, but then I notice the leaves glinting, shining in the sunlight, like burnished bronze.

I slide from the saddle to land beside my companion.

"I've heard about these trees," I say. "There used to be whole forests of metal, so they say, but they've all gone now. They were mined to extinction."

Mulan shakes her head, her hand reaching out to brush the leaves.

"Not to extinction, obviously."

She runs her hand along the branches, and I reach out too. The metal feels rough, ridged like bark under my fingers. I move from the branches to the leaves, twisting along the stems, following the lines of the veins. The metal is so fine, delicate, the thickness of real leaves, and we stand together, marveling at the fineness. Then my horse snorts behind me, loud and sharp in my ear and I jump, reflexively. My fingers tighten around the stem of a leaf awkwardly, and it breaks away in my hand.

Mulan looks at me, mouth open in shock.

"I didn't mean to do that," I say, and she smirks unbearably.

"I think you should back away from the tree, princess." The copper leaf shrinks in my palm, curling up on itself. I push it into a pocket on my saddle-bag, and climb slowly up into the saddle. "Before you do anymore damage to the last surviving member of a species."

I shake my head, ignoring her jibe.

"We should push on, if we're to reach this widow any time soon."

We ride out, pushing the horses as fast as the uneven roads will allow. The land on either side rises steeply, scrubby pasture quickly giving way to mountains and pine forests.

Occasionally we pass houses with smoke rising from the chimneys or farmers rolling milk churns out of the barn, pausing to watch us thunder by. The road twists and turns, carrying us down towards the sea. On the third day we pause atop a ridge, staring down at the port below us. It doesn't seem a big city, each street visible, brightly coloured wharfs and warehouses lining the quayside.

Just outside the town's limits we stop at a stable, dismounting as a child runs out to greet us, deftly catching at our horses' bridles.

"You can stable the horses here while you're in town, my lady," says the girl, eyeing us shrewdly. "Only 3 golds each." The price is extortionate, wildly inflated. I glance at Mulan, and she shrugs. We don't really have a choice, unless I want to barter until the small hours with the child.

"Alright," I say, pressing the money into her outstretched palm. "But I want the tack cleaned too." The kid smiles widely, and leads the horses away.

On the other side of the gates, the town is bustling, the streets filled with people.

"Do you know the widow Gunnhild?" we ask the patrolling guards as they pass. Their instructions are heavily accented, lilting traces of their own tongue thickening their words, but we understand.

As we move through the main street, I notice a familiar figure moving up ahead. Her dark hair moves easily, the crowds parting to let her through.

"Mulan," I say, pulling distractedly at her sleeve, "look. It's the gypsy."

"Your gypsy?" I nod, and she switches the positions of our hands, clutching tightly at my wrist. "Come on then," she says, and pulls us determinedly forwards.

"Wait!" I call, and although heads turn, the gypsy does not stop. "Stop!"

Mulan sighs, and rolls her eyes frustratedly, pulling us faster through the crowd, her sword knocking painfully against my thigh as we run. I'm quickly running out of breath, and my face feels flushed and red with exertion.

"Stop!" This time, she does turn round, her face breaking out into a smile when she sees me. Next to her, I feel disheveled, dirty, tired and unclean from travelling, but cannot stop the answering grin from spreading across my face.

"Hi," I say, shyly, running a nervous hand through my hair.

"I heard someone shouting," she says, "but I didn't know it was intended for me."

"Couldn't you have called her name or something?"

"Well, yeah," I mumble, "if I knew it."

"So you've created this whole panic and quest, based on the information of someone whose name you don't even know?"

The gypsy laughs, and runs her hand lightly up my arm, coming to rest lightly at the slope of my neck, skin pressed flush against skin. Her face sets into a teasing pout, as she looks between me and my companion.

"Don't be so cross, Fa Mulan. It's not her fault – she did ask. I just haven't told her, yet."

There's a moment of awkward silence, taken up mostly with me staring at her, tongue tied. Mulan's eyes jump from one to the other, and I can see that smug smirk hovering just beneath her usual stoic mask.

"Since we're all here, and we're new in town, how about you show the best hostel, and we buy you dinner." She pauses to gauge our reactions. "After all, I hear gypsys are considered lucky, and I think the Princess will need all she can get."

We're led to a tavern, much like the one in which my gypsy and I first met. She nods at waiter, who returns with three steaming mugs of…something. I look at it, suspiciously, and bend my nose to sniff at the steam.

"A local speciality," the gypsy says, and as I take a tentative first sip her hand slide along my leg, resting on the inside of my thigh. I swallow rapidly, choking as the scalding liquid burns its way down my throat.

"Very good," I croak, "but hot."

The food we order is warm and nourishing, and the conversation flows surprisingly well, although the gypsy is careful to steer us away from any topic relating to our quest.

Several times I notice Mulan frowning in displeasure at being yet again skillfully re-directed. Her jaw works, grinding her teeth together.

"Look," she says suddenly, crashing her mug down onto the table, "we're after information on the threat posed by the Evil Queen and her palace of ice. Either you can help us, or you can't."

Stopped in mid-flow the woman next to me shifts, moving her hand up to rest on the surface of the table.

"The Queen is no threat to you, or anyone. Don't waste your time searching her out, when there are far greater dangers brewing in the Enchanted Forest, as you should know better than anyone, warrior of Chin."

"What do you mean, greater dangers?"

"It takes great power to summon a wraith, great and malevolent power. And to actually control it? That's even harder." Mulan's hand fists around her mug, knuckles turning white with strain.

"What do you know of the wraith?" she asks, voice as tense as her hand.

"Nothing, yet. Which worries me – I should be hearing things, whispers on the wind, but I'm not. If you had any sense, you'd leave the queen, and focus on who's controlling the wraith."

My companion stands, pushing her chair backwards.

"That's up to you, Princess," she says, "but I could never live with the shame of a abandoning a quest of my own. And I hardly think your mother would approve, either."

I nod, reluctantly.

"We'll do as we've been asked," I say, turning to my gypsy and covering her hand with my own. "I cannot believe a woman so bent on revenge against my family would just give up. But I promise, we will be alert for anything that sounds like it could be related to the wraith."

The bell rings behind the bar, signaling closing time.

"Goodnight," Mulan says stiffly, giving a kind of formal half-bow to our dinner guest. "Are you coming, Princess?"

I dither undecidedly. My oath to my mother weighs on my mind, but the pull of the woman beside me roots me to my seat.

"I'll be up in a second."

Once my travelling companion has disappeared up the stairs, I trace my fingers lightly up the other woman's arm. She watches me closely, the hint of a smile dancing at the corners of her lips.

"Go on," she says, "say it." I focus down on her hand, on the patterns I'm drawing there. When I look up, I catch her gaze, almost mesmerized by the look on her face. I breathe deeply, screwing my courage together before speaking.

"I can't help feeling that you know more than you're telling us. You're involved in this, somehow, and I wish you'd tell me. I could help you if you're in trouble – I have influence at court, obviously, and…"

A finger comes up to rest across my mouth, effectively silencing me.

"Thank you for your concern, your Highness," she says, "but there's nothing you can do. If you're set on finding the Queen, well…" She looks away, hand falling from my lips, watching the remaining few customers head out into the night. "But I'll hold you to your offer of help, if I ever need it."

I nod, and lift her hand to my mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles as a promise. It's a courtly gesture I've always hated receiving, open-mouthed nobles slobbering over my ring in a sycophantic show of loyalty, but giving it, right now, feels like the only option.

She hand turns, rising to cup my cheek, her thumb running softly along the line of my jaw. Her touch trails round, dipping down my neck until it meets the leather of my necklace.

"I'm glad you're wearing this," she says. "We couldn't have you wandering around unprotected, now could we?"

Her mention of the charm reminds me of the day in the castle.

"You said it was cheap magic, almost a toy. It's not though, is it?" She smiles, hand retracing it's lines back up to tangle in the back of my hair.

"I say many things every day, Emma, and you shouldn't believe all of them."

"Who are you? At least tell me your name."

Her face now is just inches from mine, eyes locked firmly on my lips.

"Not yet, love. Just know I'm your friend. A friend who's very, very fond of you."

The stairs are dark and cold, the wood creaking beneath my feet as I climb. Eventually I fumble my way along the corridor to the room Mulan and I have rented for the night. As I light the candle, I see Mulan take in my mussed hair and dreamy look.

"I give myself three guesses as to what you were doing down there," she mutters dryly. I just roll my eyes, busying myself with my nightly routine. I deny nothing and I confirm nothing. That way my mother will never be able to squeeze a confession out of either of us.

Once I'm under the covers I snuff the candle, leaving the room lit only by the light night sky, the outlines of the furniture barely visible.

"Are you awake?" I hiss, and I hear Mulan sigh.

"Yes, I suppose am." My question sticks in my throat, and finally she rolls over, staring at me across the expanse of space between our beds. "What do you want?"

"Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"Not with gypsies, no."

"But in general you do?" There's a long silence, and then I hear her nod. I half sit up, propping myself up on my elbow. "Have you fallen in love at first sight then?"

"No." The word is flat, without inflection or emotion, and I know, without knowing exactly why, that it's a lie.

"You have! Who'd have guessed – Fa Mulan, stoic warrior and closet romantic." She huffs, and rolls onto her back, throwing one arm across her eyes.

"I just want to sleep," she says, but the opportunity is too good to pass up.

"Who was it then?" I push. "A childhood romance, doomed to failure? Your first army commander - that's why you left Chin."

"No." The word is more insistent this time, and more truthful. I realize that, in fact, I know very little about the woman assigned to my quest. I have to scrabble around in my brain even to dredge up a single person she knows.

"Phillip?"

She makes a noise that I might almost categorize as disgust.

"Not Phillip. He was a brother in arms, we shared a quest, that's all. Like you."

"Oh my god," I say, "that's it. It's totally me, isn't it. You're madly, deeply, head-over heels in love with me. That's why you don't use my name ever, it's too painful."

"Go to sleep, _Emma_," she says, although I hear the smile in her voice. I twist under the blankets, burying my face into the pillow, phantom lips still pressed against my own.

In the morning, the gypsy is gone. When I ask after her, the bartender looks at me askew.

"A gypsy, milady? We've not had a gypsy in here for weeks."

"But she was here last night, with us. You knew her, it seemed." I wave my hand futilely in the direction of the table we'd occupied. I can feel my face flushing with memory. "She was the last to leave – you spoke to us, told us…" I trail off, too aware of Mulan's silent presence at my shoulder. No way am I gonna confess to being told to keep my lips to myself or be arrested for public indecency.

"Sorry," he says, "don't remember."

Out in the street, we follow directions to the widow's house, and find it on the outskirts. Her house looks like all the others this far north, made of wood and painted white in the front and red in the back.

"Why paint the house two colours?" Mulan whispers as we peer over the hedge for a glimpse of the owner. I shrug.

"Red paint's cheaper," says a voice from behind the leaves, making us jump, "so you show your visitors the expensive one. Unless they sneak around to the back, like you." An old woman straightens up from where she'd been weeding her vegetable beds. "Can I help you?"

"Are you Gunnhild?" She nods, planting her hands on her hips. "We were told you might know about a palace of ice, and its new inhabitants?"

Gunnhild looks about, checking the street for anyone else, before waving us into the garden.

"Come in," she says in a hushed voice, "and be quick about it."

xXx


	8. Chapter 8

She hurries us down the garden path, leaning between us to open the door, checking for watching eyes as she shuts us in.

"Sit down, sit down," she says, waving distractedly at a long table that fills the back wall. "Where they can't see you."

Mulan and I slide along benches on the far side, pressing our backs to the wall, separated by a window. The old woman fusses with the stove for a moment, adding more logs to the flames before shutting the door. A dog peers up at her from in front of the fire, tail thumping lazily on the floor.

"Are you hungry?" Mulan shakes her head, politely, and I'm about to do the same when my stomach lets out a long, low growl. Gunnhild laughs. "Rice soup, then, all round."

Mulan looks sideways at me. "Rice soup?"

I shrug, and hold my tongue as we are served steaming bowls of porridge. I lift the food to my mouth, blowing tenderly on the spoon to cool it. When finally I think it's not going to scald my tongue right out of my mouth, I curl my lips around the spoon. Just as I do so, our host speaks.

"What do you want, then? With the queen on the ice?"

I swallow hastily, wincing as the porridge burns the back of my already scalded throat.

"It's more a case of what she wants from us," I sputter. "There's rumours, everywhere, of her return, and my mother wants to know…."

"Your mother?" Her tone is sharp, searching.

"Snow White, of the Enchanted Forest."

"Oh yes, I know." The old woman nods, and returns to noisily sucking down her own bowl of porridge.

"My mother, and the council, want to know why she's returned, and where from, and what threat she poses to our peace."

Gunnhild pauses for a moment, spoon clattering onto the china of her bowl. She reaches across the table, taking my free hand in her own, inspecting the lines of my fingers, the ridges and whorls set into my skin.

"And why, of all the people in the Enchanted Forest, did they send you?"

I look at my companion, who shrugs as if to say 'you've got to give a little, to get things in return'. I tell our host the story of my encounter in the forest, and at the tavern. Just like for the council, I leave out some of the more….personal details.

"You spoke to the wolves?"

"A wolf. And not directly. Through a boy."

"So you, Emma, daughter of Snow White, spoke to the queen's wolf through a boy." I nod, not understanding why everything is having to be repeated, over and over again. "What kind of boy? About ten years old? Brown hair?"

"How do you know that?" Mulan's hand has moved to the hilt of her sword, and I can feel her tensing beside me, readying to flee or fight.

The old woman ignores her, and takes another mouthful of her rice porridge.

"Tell me, if you find the queen, what then?"

There's silence for a moment, as I consider my answer. It's almost embarrassing to admit that I don't know, I hadn't considered that far.

"Do you intend to kill her?"

"No! No – I've just been sent to find out. Anything else, that's my parents' decision."

She nods thoughtfully, eyes narrowed as she continues to eat. I get the feeling that she's looking at more than just my face, or my clothes. Somehow I feel that she's looking _inside_, at my very heart.

Finally, she sets her spoon down and folds her hands on the table top.

"I know little enough of the queen, even when I lived in the south. But I've lived near the ice long enough to feel the changes in it." She stood, collecting our empty bowls and carrying them to a stone sink and beginning to wash. "The palace you seek was built long before my grandmother's time, but even I remember the Troll King himself. Greedy, cowardly, and completely vicious. The people all about were terrified, in those days. Then, in the years after your mother banished the Evil Queen, things changed. The wolves moved in, and the trolls mostly moved out. They give us no trouble, and we gives them none."

"But is it her? Is it _Regina_?"

"It's not known for certain who it is. The Troll King's daughter is said to still mope about the place, down in the lower levels where there's no light."

"I've heard about her," Mulan says. "She had a nose three yards long. But that's just a story, isn't it?"

"The north's a strange place, warrior. There's magic here older than the magic of man. The first magic, they say, came from the dancing lights. Perhaps you'll see them, out on the ice."

She turns back to us, seating herself at the table.

"I won't lie to you – the ice is no friendly place. It's cold, and the wind bites through your clothes, no matter how many you've got. It's flat and it's hard and there's things out there that do not like you."

My hand reaches up, under my shirt, to grasp at the gypsy's necklace. The glass feels warm, the heat of my body still trapped inside. It offers protection from magic, but I doubt it would stop wolves teeth, or hungry, sharpened nails of a troll.

"I thought," I say, cursing my voice for its weakness, "that the wolves leave you alone, and that the trolls were gone."

"They're not the only things living out in the cold, your Highness. I can tell you in which direction to set your skis, but from there you're on your own."

She writes us an equipment list, handwriting crabbed with age and her language's native runes. "Tell the shopkeeper I sent you, he'll treat you fairly."

We nod our thanks, and make our way out of the front door.

"Look, Princess," Mulan says. "The tree!"

The tree in her garden, like the one we found on the road, is living metal. A trunk of silver thrusts up from the ground, gleaming in the evening light. This tree is older, more established, the canopy reaching high overhead. And like in the orchards back home, this tree is laden with fruit. I reach out to touch it, feeling the weight of the apple resting in my hand.

"Don't break this tree too," Mulan says, and as I turn to frown at her the stem of the apple twists and breaks under my fingers.

"Oh my god," I say, holding the fruit out to Gunnhild. "I didn't… I didn't mean to pick the apple."

The widow just smiles, and closes my hand around the silver fruit.

"These apples can't be picked, Princess," she says. "They only fall when the time is right."

We speak to Gunnhild's merchant, and he supplies us with everything we need. There's a dogsled parked in the corner of his shop, and I find my eyes returning to it again and again as we're fitted for skis, boots, woollen underwear and white, fur lined outer clothes.

Walking long distances is hard enough at times, even without long planks of wood tied to your toes. Factor in the cold, and the amount of stuff we'll have to carry – on our backs – and I want that sled.

"How much," I ask as the man kneels before me, testing the bindings on my boots, "for the dogsled instead of our skis?"

Mulan laughs.

"Can you drive a dogsled, Princess?" I frown under the fur hat.

"I could learn." She laughs again, leaning forward on her ski poles, looking entirely too comfortable and at ease in her cold weather gear. After all, wasn't Chin supposed to be a hot place? "Or you could."

"And what – you sit on the front and get pulled along?" The image, I have to say, is exactly what I had in mind. Mulan, though, just shakes her head in amusement.

"Just think," I say, pulling the hat and gloves off, and dropping them onto our pile of purchases, "I'll love you back if you agree to the sled." I flutter my eyelashes unconvincingly at her, and she laughs.

"I guess my love will have to stay unrequited, then. We're skiing."


	9. Chapter 9

It's harder than I would have thought, skiing along a flat path. Mulan seems to take long, loping strides, arms working together, and she flies along at speed, far out in front. I, meanwhile, can only seem to shuffle forwards, my skis slipping back as almost as far as they move forward.

At least in places the land slopes gently downwards, the earth running towards the sea somewhere under the packed feet of snow. There I just lock my knees in place, and allow myself to slide slowly forward.

We're in such a place now, leaving the last of the trees behind, heading out onto the ice floes. It's going well – I'm remembering to lean forward, as stupid as that sounds, and just manage to muster up the courage to shift to oneside, left ski slightly overtaking it's twin. I'm turning, slowly, but still: I'm actually turning. I dig my poles into the ground and push, willing up some more speed to make the turn back the other way.

Just as I do so, I catch a glimpse of something glinting in the dark shade of the forest edge. I turn my head to stare, and realize that the light is being reflected – not off a metal tree, this time – but a pair of yellow eyes.

I've stopped concentrating on my turn, and suddenly my skis are going in opposite directions, crossing over one another, sending my arms into a frantic windmill and my arse smacking down in the snow.

I lay there, for a moment, trying to untangle my legs. Normally, that wouldn't be a problem – except for that one, extremely drunken, time Pinocchio will never let me live down – but with planks of wood twice as tall as me strapped to my feet, it's much harder.

There's the sound of wood gliding across snow, and then Mulan's face, half-covered by her furs, is peering down at me.

"You alright, Princess?"

I nod, and tilt my head towards the trees.

"There were eyes, in the forest, " I say in a stage whisper, trying to subtly search for the eyes I'd seen.

"Oh yes," my companion replies, in quite her normal voice, "we're being watched." Skis finally sorted, I sit up and hold out my hand for Mulan to pull me upright. "I imagined it was your Queen's wolves again."

"Not my Queen," I say, brushing snow from my jacket and hat, and she shrugs.

"You know what I mean, Emma. Now look, push your feet sideways, like this." And pushing my feet sideways, I set off again.

By sundown, after lots more coaching and an uncountable number of falls, Mulan generously allows us to stop for the night. We set up the tent the merchant supplied us with, and start the fire inside. I grumble to myself as I chew into the dried meat we've brought as food, huddled as close to the flames as I can without physically melting.

"We could have stopped earlier, Princess, if you hadn't fallen over quite so much."

I send my best glare at her as she drops down beside me. She smiles, kindly, and reaches for her own dinner.

"It's alright – if you're not falling, you're not learning." We eat in silence for a moment, the crackling on the wood and the whistle of the wind outside filling the space between us.

"There's a wolf outside," she says after a while, conversationally. I choke, a piece of meat lodging in my throat. Mulan bangs my back hard until I stop coughing, and I sit up.

"What?" My voice is still shaky, hoarse from the coughing.

"There's a wolf. Some distance away, just sitting there, watching us."

I stand up, crossing to the tent opening, and pull back the canvas just wide enough to stick my head out. The wind is bitter, scratching at my face, making my eyes blink and screw tight together. The snow is picking up too, falling in great clouds, piling up against the side of our shelter.

There in the near distance, just as Mulan said, sits a wolf. Its head, as far as I can see, is trained in our direction. It must see me, for it stands and moves closer, within a bow's reach, and then lies back down.

I pull my head back inside the tent, lacing the canvas together again. I shake my head to get rid of the snow that's built up in my hair, and sit back by the fire, holding the wet curls out to dry.

"I think it's safe to say that the Queen knows we're coming," I say. Mulan shrugs, which I take as a sign of agreement. "Which means the question is – why hasn't she stopped us yet? I mean, she could have killed us with a snow storm, or a crack in the ice, or even just got her wolves to attack."

"The wolves won't attack – you smell like her, remember. Like her pack mate."

"Yeah, whatever that means. What do we do?"

"Nothing. It's not hurting us, we won't hurt it. Can't hurt our cause to be nice to the Queen's minions."

I climb in to my sleeping bag, still in my clothes and boots, while my companion does the same. She lies down next to me, bodies touching through the bags.

"Try not to touch me too much in your sleep," I warn her. "I know you're in love with me, but I am a Princess, and deserve more than a clumsy fondle in a tent."

"What, you'd prefer a groping gypsy in a dirty tavern instead?" She laughs at her own joke, a short bark of amusement. "Besides, I'm not in love with you, Princess."

I wriggle closer, my face almost pressed into her hair.

"Oh yeah?" I mumble, eyes drifting closed. "Who are you in love with?"

"If you're gonna sleep that close, please don't drool into my hair. And I'm not telling you."

I'd like to protest, but it'll have to wait as I slip off to sleep.

It feels like 5 minutes later when Mulan stirs next to me, climbing out of her bag.

"Come on, Princess," she says, "time for more falling over." I grunt, and turn over, face down against the groundsheet. But the weeks on the road have had their effect on me, for I push myself off the ground and out of the bag to help my companion dismantle the tent.

Outside, the weather has calmed. The sun is bright overhead, and the wind is stilled. The wolf is nowhere in sight. We pack the tent away, strap our skis to our feet, and set off. The going seems easier today, my strides flowing more freely, despite the stiffness in my legs and back.

I've lost weight, too, on our trip, the rounded edges of my hips and face being planed away to reveal the muscle underneath. My stomach feels flatter than it has in ten years, and in the bright sunshine, I feel good. I feel confident, attractive, and start to sing. The tune's an old song, one I haven't heard in court for years. It's about trolls, and cursed princes and polar bears, and washing tallow out of shirts. It comes from the north, and out here on the ice I can almost see it unfolding in front of me.

My voice isn't the best – a succession of tutors repeatedly tone my mother I was flat and sharp and everything inbetween – but today even I can hold a tune. Mulan, skiing behind me, picks up the tune, and we glide along peacefully.

The land is flat, and I fall a lot less than yesterday. We're making good time, so when I spot a large outcrop of ice ahead, I call back to my companion to stop for lunch. We've just got settled, when the unmistakable sounds of a large animal come from the other side of the ice. Heavy panting breaths, solid footsteps, and even, although I hope I'm imagining it, a bone-shaking growl. I slip from the ice, sinking ankle-deep into the snow without my skis.

Coming round the outcrop is a very large, very hungry-looking polar bear. In my song the bear was friendly, a prince in disguise, but this one flashes long, sharp, yellow teeth in a snarl, and I know that this is no prince.

"Stay still," Mulan hisses at me, stuck behind me.

The bear rears up on its hind legs, letting out a long roar of anger. I fumble at my waist for my sword, desperately trying to pull it from its scabbard. The metal is cold, and sticks, and my fingers are clumsy in the thick fur gloves.

The bear crashes to the ice again, moving forwards at a run, mouth open. I stumble backwards. I know the bear will outrun me, know that I cannot fight it off. Any moment, I think, claws will rip into my back.

I let out a strangled whimper in anticipation of the pain, but none comes.

Instead, a fierce snarling starts up behind me, multiple growls and barks of rage and pain. I turn, and see the bear beset by wolves. Four of them harry the bear's head, ducking and dancing out of the way of its teeth and claws. Two more snap and nip at its hind feet, causing it to jump and turn, uncertain of which threat to deal with first.

I stand for a moment, unmoving, before Mulan's voice urges me into motion. I cross back to my companion, and finally draw my sword.

We stand back to back, swords held out.

One of the wolves darts forward, catching the bear on the neck. Bright red blood spurts out, staining the bear's white fur and the wolf's mouth. The bear rears upright again, shaking its head and sending the wolf flying. Batting at another wolf on the way down, it turns and lopes across the ice, into the distance.

The wolves stop growling, and re-form into a pack, the one with the bloody mouth at the front. They turn towards Mulan and me, mouths open and panting.

"Shit," I say. "Plan?"

"Kill as many as we can, hope the rest run off." I swallow hard, and shift my grip on my sword. I wish I could take my gloves off for a firmer hold, but the cold steel would burn my skin, and then I'd be no use at all.

"I wouldn't kill any, if I were you." The voice from nowhere is completely unexpected, and I turn around, sword point dropping, trying to find its owner.

The boy from the woods stands by our skis, wrapped tightly now in white furs. He walks out, legs sinking almost to the knee in the fresh powder. He stops by the bloodied wolf, hand resting lightly on its neck, stroking the fur.

"I told you before, they won't hurt you." He smiles, and I drop my sword completely, putting it back in its scabbard. Mulan follows my lead, and bends down to pick up the things we dropped in our haste to defend ourselves.

The boy turns to the wolf, looking into its eyes.

"She said we weren't supposed to help them," he says, "but she wouldn't want the bear to have eaten them. Will she be cross, do you think?" He sniffs, and draws his glove across his face, wiping at his nose. The wolf growls low in return, and the boy nods. "Alright. I'll tell them."

He turns to look at me, face angled up into the sun, eyes scrunching against the light.

"Come with us," he says. "The Queen's expecting you."


	10. Chapter 10

We make a bloody strange group, I think, as we make our way across the tundra. Wolves that take orders from a witch, the boy that speaks to them, a warrior with a guarded past, and a princess who's been - so far - nothing but a scandal and an embarrassment to her parents.

Even as I think it, I can hear my father's voice in my head.

"You're not an embarrassment," he'd say. "You're my daughter, and you're more perfect than all the gods combined." The thought brings a smile to my face, sheltered under my fur wrap, but hot on its heels are other voices, other words.

"Drinking at all hours, and with all sorts of low people. Probably sleeps with them too." They sound like the ladies of court, they sound, uncomfortably, like my mother. "Can you have forgotten the incident?"

I look down at the boy at my side, trudging silently across the snow. He's about the age I'd imagined - ten or just a bit older - and the sight of him makes my heart thump painfully. He must feel my gaze, for he looks up, eyes squinting against the reflected sun.

"How come you can speak to the wolves?" I ask, to hide my previous musings.

"My mother taught me." He shrugs, as though it's nothing special. I suppose, considering where he's leading us, and to whom, that maybe it isn't. After all, my mother speaks to bluebirds. At least wolves are cooler. Less twittery and sentimental. Bluebirds would have been no use whatsoever against a polar bear.

The boy chats on happily about his lessons, about his friends the wolves, about the books he's reading. His chatter happily fills the time, and before long the palace of ice looms in the distance.

It's slim, tall, the crystal peak towering into the heavens. It seems to catch and magnify the sunlight, so that it's almost blinding to look at. It reminds me of the stories of the Emerald City, that shimmered and shone with green, but this is no illusion. No coloured glasses are needed here. It's a proper piece of art, the kind even I can appreciate, and it amazes me that something this beautiful was built by trolls.

The boy and Mulan slide to a graceful halt. I manage to stop at roughly the same point, and stand beside them, leaning on my poles.

"Here we are," says the boy. "Visitors have to go in the front way." Then, like in the forest, he raises his hand in farewell, and leaves. The wolves follow after him, circling round his heels like puppies, eager to be fed and played with.

We leave our skis and packs piled up at the foot of the grand palace steps.

"Not very good for a quick escape," Mulan says, frowning.

"No." I turn to look up at the towering ice, squinting against the reflected brilliance. "But then again - if this goes wrong, I highly doubt we'll be able just to run away. This is the Evil Queen, you know."

Mulan looks uncomfortable, hand instinctively seeking the pommel of her sword, gripping the metal through her gloves. I, too, can't help but feel afraid. Under my furs, close to my skin, the gypsy's necklace sits warm and heavy against my skin. I press my hand to it through my clothes, willing myself to be brave. At least I've a little protection against spells, I think.

The entrance hall is sparsely decorated. A few frozen tapestries line the walls, the figures in them grossly distorted, the colours leaching into one another. This is troll fashion, I realise with a start.

"Hello?" It's probably stupid to call out, to announce our presence to our enemies, but the whole place has a feel of desertion. My voice echoes round the room, bouncing hollowly off the walls.

"Perhaps the witch isn't here, after all."

I take a few steps further into the room, loosening the furs from around my head, exposing my face to the cold air.

"Perhaps not." There's a rustling behind me, and then cold, sharp metal is pressed against my exposed throat.

"Perhaps other things lurk in the dark."

The breath in my ear is fetid, fishy, and the cold fingers that slide across my cheek don't feel human. I can feel the bulk of my attacker behind me, the solid, lumpish form. The pieces slowly click into place as I watch Mulan gawk, open-mouthed, in front of me.

"You're the troll princess." The one with the nose three yards long. "The daughter of the king who built this place?" The hand at my neck tightens, and she hisses in a surprised breath.

"Come on a quest, have you? How sweet. Proving your valour by killing a troll." The troll's voice is rising, full of scorn and mockery. "How traditional. How noble." She pauses, and I can feel the sneer that forms just inches from my own face. "How _stupid_."

The blade cuts into my neck, just breaking the skin. Mulan leaps forward, as I struggle to get my words out.

"No," I gasp, "we're here for the Queen."

"The witch?" The pressure of the blade eases slightly, away from my skin. I can feel the hot rush of blood to the wound, and bring my hand up to stop the flow.

"Yes," Mulan says, voice gentle and reassuring. "We're here for the witch."

"Bitch, more like. Ousted my family, stole my palace, stole my food, stole my pretty things." The troll lets out a kind of strangled sob, fat tears rolling down her face and into my hair. "All my pretty, pretty things."

She lets me go, pushing me forward. I stumble on the icy floor, and almost lose my balance. My companion catches me, and I turn in her arms to face the troll.

"Let my companion and I go," I say, "and we'll get rid of the witch for you." It's a promise I can't possibly hope to keep, but trolls are not known for their cleverness.

"If I'm not to eat you," the troll says, an undisguised look of attempted cunning flashing across her face, "then you need to make it worth my while."

Mulan and I exchange a look, before I remember what I have to give her. I reach into the inner pocket of my coat, searching for the metal leaf.

"Here," I say, holding it out to her. "Is this pretty enough?"

The leaf is grabbed from my hands, and she turns it over and over in front of her face, watching it shine.

"Pretty enough, for now." She waves her hand in the direction of the far wall. "Through the door and keep going. If she wants to, the witch will find you."

Once we're through the doors the air begins to warm. Corridors and staircases lead off in all directions, and Mulan and I stand, confused, in the middle.

"Which way now, Princess?"

I'm about to say I haven't the faintest idea, but that's not true. She'll find us, the troll said, and so presumably any direction is the right one. I turn, looking about, until a corridor to our right catches my eye.

I set off confidently, following a winding passage. Mulan trails behind me, staring at the tapestries that line these walls too. If the Queen is here, she's made little effort with the interior decorating.

"Is it just me," Mulan asks after a while, "or is this corridor sloping up?"

She's right - the corridor does seem to be climbing. We pass window after window, and I begin to think we're circling the whole outside of the palace, slowly climbing as we go. The circles we're walking seem to be getting tighter, the views coming round more quickly.

We're in the tower, I realize. The tower of ice I'd so admired from the ground. And of course - it makes sense: the highest room in the highest tower. That's how heroics goes, right?

Finally, we round a corner and the floor levels out. At the end of the corridor, a guard stands in front of a door.

"Look at that," Mulan whispers, "you actually brought us to the right place. I'm almost proud." I elbow her in the side, and stride towards the door. The man guarding it doesn't move, and nor does the wolf sitting calmly at his feet. His eyes watch my approach , disinterestedly.

"Open up," I say, my years of ordering castle servants around standing me in good stead. I school my face into one of bored indifference, and stand, weight on one foot, waiting for him to jump to my bidding.

When he stands there, impassive, I straighten up.

"Open the door, I say."

Still he doesn't move, so I march forward, hand outstretched for the handle. I'm expecting his pike to bar my way, but he lets me through.

The door swings open easily, with minimum effort. The room beyond is full of light, the ice this high enough thin enough that the whole room seems walled with frosted glass. There must be magic in the air, for the room's warm, homely, not at all what I had expected of the Evil Queen's lair.

The boy and his wolf are stretched out in front of a fire, the boy's head buried in a book. Next to them, in a high wing back chair, sits a woman.

Well, at least I think it's a woman. All I can see are legs.

I stop abruptly, and Mulan crashes into my back. I barely notice - all my attention is on the legs.

Long, shapely legs encased in what looks like skin-tight leather. I'd definitely say those were the legs of an Evil Queen.

God, am I glad my mother's not here right at this moment.

"Really, dear," she'd say, "do get a hold of yourself. They're just legs." Her voice is so real I can almost hear it.

I'm suddenly nervous about facing the Queen in a way I wasn't before. Before, all I'd had to worry about was fire and magic and the imminent prospect of my looming death.

"They are nice legs, I'll grant you that, but they're just legs."

Now I have to cope with the unavoidable fact of my overwhelming attraction to what were in all probability...

"My legs."

I blink, shaking my head. For a moment, I thought my imaginary mother had...

The figure in the chair stands up, coming round the edge of her seat. The rest of her is also dressed all in black, right down to the buttons on her sleeves. That's definitely an evil look, one way or another.

"Well, Princess," she says, "if I'd known it would have this effect on you, I might have dressed like this earlier."

I wrench my eyes up from her clothing, totally, definitely, absolutely avoiding the hint of cleavage on show, and actually look into the face of the woman we've been seeking all this time.

The smirking face, in fact, of my gypsy.


	11. Chapter 11

"I knew it!" Mulan's words are little more than a growl as she steps round me, sword drawn. "I knew that damn gypsy was hiding something. This has all been a trick! A ploy to get you here. Run Princess, and I'll protect you."

The Evil Queen makes no move, but behind us the scruffily shaven guard and wolf have appeared in the doorway, teeth bared and pike levelled. She waves them off lightly, then holds out her hands in a gesture of submission.

"I never lied to you, Emma," she says.

"No, but you hardly told the truth either." She flinches as though stung, turning her face from mine, down towards the boy at her feet. The boy looks up from the rug, and she nods, silently. He stands up, gathering his book. As he passes me, he stops.

"If you hurt her," he says, glowering up at me from underneath his eyebrows, "if you even try to hurt her..." He trails off, but the growl from the wolf next to him gets the message across. I nod seriously at him, and the glower on his face only deepens.

He stares at me for a moment, until the Queen clears her throat. He carries on past me, and stops by my companion, catching hold of her sleeve and pulling her towards the door. She resists, passively, her steps slow and heavy.

With a glance at the Queen's face, I nod.

"Go, I'll be alright."

They leave, and the door shuts behind them. For a moment, the tower room is filled with silence. The Queen – I have to consciously call her that – just stares at me, wearing a look I can't place. My own eyes can't seem to stay still, and flit around the room, taking in the piles of books, the large framed maps, the amount of mirrors.

I'm still standing there, focusing on everything but the other person in the room, when I hear her sigh and sit back down.

"Now's the time, if you're going to do it," she says. "I won't fight you. Just – look after my son."

I'm confused, completely. This is not at all how I had expected my mission to end. I cross the room in a few short strides and stand before her chair.

"Now's the time for what?" She gestures loosely at my sword, still sheathed. I suddenly understand."No! I'm not going to kill you." The words trigger a memory, and a thought crosses my mind. "Were you the old woman, Gunnhild? I've heard of your disguises, and fallen for them."

My voice sounds more bitter than I intend it to, but given the circumstances, that can hardly be helped.

My gypsy – I really have to break myself of both those habits: she's not a gypsy, and she's definitely not mine – laughs, hands set lightly on the arms of her chair. She looks confident, charming, and – although my mother really would kill me for thinking it – extremely attractive.

"Is that old bat still alive? I thought she'd died years ago." She calms herself, shifting in the seat. "No, I wasn't her."

It's awkward, having this conversation with her standing, while she's sat down. It makes me want to kneel in front of her, bring myself down to eye level, which will never do. Across the room is another chair like the Queen's, but it looks too heavy to simply drag. Instead, I seat myself on the arm of her chair, leaning back against the upright.

As soon as I've done it, I realise my mistake. It feels horrendously intimate, and I'm reminded of all the times my parents would sit like this, watching my latest attempts at dancing or art. I start to move, determined to find somewhere more suitable to sit, but a hand on my thigh stops me.

Literally stops me.

Her hand lands on my leg, thumb lightly stroking along the grain of the fur, caressing. My reaction is almost instantaneous. My muscles tense, and I freeze in position, stuck on the arm of the chair. I wonder if she's used a spell on me, to stop me moving. But there's been no flash from my necklace, and as I shift into a more comfortable position, there's no magical restraints to fight against.

"Stay there," she says. The words could be an order, but the tone in which they're spoken is more of a plea. "It will be easier, if I can't see your face."

As though I want to make things easy for her. Her, whose name I can't bring myself to say, let alone think, who betrayed me, who...

I'm angry, and rightly so, but it's muted, somehow, distant. It's as though there's a layer of ice around my heart, stopping me feeling all the things that I should be. It doesn't stop me feeling the path of her thumb on my leg, though.

"Why didn't you tell me, who you were?"

"If I had, right at the beginning, what would you have done? Arrested me? Thrown me in the dungeon? Does the warrant for my execution still stand?" She sighs, and her hand stills it's movement. "What would have happened to my son then?"

I look at the door that the others had left through.

"The boy is your son?" Beside me, she nods. "But he's like ten or something. And you've got to be..."

She's got to be at least twice my age. Triple, even, maybe. The stories floating round court never exactly specified.

"Sixty three."

Shit. I've been making out with someone who could be grandmother. Who was, in fact, married to my grandfather. Although, if I'm being charitable and assuming me she kissed me that often because she wanted to, rather than to manipulate me, her tastes definitely lie in other directions. I run through some dates in my head, working out how old she must have been, back then, when she was my mother's step-mother. Barely more than a child herself, it turns out. The thought makes me sick to my stomach.

I think of Philip and my parents, all aging as Aurora stayed young and beautiful. Perhaps something similar happened to her – perhaps that's the reason for her disappearance. But that can't explain her ten year old son, or the length of time Gunnhild said the ice had been free of trolls.

"Looking good on it, Your Majesty. That's yet another thing you need to explain."

"I've been...elsewhere for much of it. A land without magic. Now that's something you should see." It sounds like something that will need to be explained, later. First there are other, more pressing questions building up on the tip of my tongue.

"If you couldn't tell me, why did you pursue me? Everywhere I went, there you were." She begins to speak, but I cut her off. This isn't what I wanted to say, isn't what I think the council would want me to ask. But it's the most important thing to know. "You let me trust you, you let me rely on you, you let me l…"

She stands up, away from me.

"Don't say it," she warns. "Don't say that."

"It's true though. I did trust you, I did rely on you. And you could just have disappeared again, back to your land without magic. Or at least you didn't have to tell me where you lived. You didn't have to kiss me, that first day. You didn't have to come to the palace, or the tavern on the road."

She throws her hands up in the air, wheeling away from me, facing the fire. Her words, when they come are full of passion and frustration.

"I did those things because I wanted to! I did those things because I thought I was safe to!" She sighs, resignedly, and lowers her voice. "I thought you would never come here. You don't exactly have a reputation for sticking at things, and I found that I…. that I liked you."

It's as much of an answer, as much of a confession as I'm going to get. She sinks back down into her seat, wearily. The leather of her trousers creaks uncomfortably.

"I tried to tell you," she continues, "not to come here. I tried to tell you to leave me alone. But you and Fa Mulan carried on. What are you going to do, now you've found me?" Her voice wavers and breaks, and I can't fight the wave of protectiveness. I do climb off the armrest this time, and kneel at her feet. So what if it's submissive, so what if it mirrors the oath of fealty I've only just made to another queen.

I'm not breaking my oath. I'm not distracted or diverted – the woman in front of me is my mission – and I'm not giving away any secrets. Rather, in fact, I'm revealing them.

My hands latch onto her knees, running up the length of her thighs. I smile, in a way that I hope is reassuring.

"My mother and the council only want information," I say. "They just wanted to check the realm's security. You're no threat to them, I believe that, I'll tell them. That way, you and the boy…"

"Henry."

"You and Henry can stay here, safe." My throat closes round the words. I find I don't want her to stay here, alone, with only a half-mad troll for company.

"How long would it be, do you think, before Snow and her charming husband sent another knight after me? Perhaps even an army. And the chances are, they won't think as tenderly of me as you do."

A friend who is very, very fond of me. That's how she'd described herself, back when I trusted her blindly. And, do you believe in love at first sight, I'd asked my companion. It seems unavoidably obvious now that I definitely do.

She smiles, weakly, and I feel an answering grin break out across my face.

I've never cried into a kiss before, but it doesn't make it any less sweet, or desperate. Her hands fist in my hair, pulling me out of my crouch and up, until I'm virtually sat in her lap. Her teeth are at my lip, her tongue tracing the captured flesh.

"Wait," I manage to say, our mouths just hairs' breadths from each other, "I made an oath not to get distracted, until my mission was complete."

She stares at me in silence, the room filled only with the sound of heavy breathing. My knees press uncomfortably against the sides of her chair. If there's a moment to back away, to step down, it's now.

"I won't tell your mother's council if you don't." Her words are meant to sound flippant, easy, as though she couldn't care less what I decided to do. But the way her hands tighten in my hair, bringing me ever closer, and the way her voice wavers give the lie to her bravado.

She wants this, I think, needs this, as much as I do.

As I lean forwards again to meet her searching mouth, I realize I've completely lost control of the situation, lost control of mission, and, right in this moment, I simply don't care. Our hands work feverishly at the fastenings of my outdoor clothes, pulling us closer. Together we manage to stand, stumbling towards piles of bookcases. She pulls the necklace she gave me off my neck, pressing it firmly into my pocket.

I begin to protest, but then we're transported in a cloud of purple smoke.

"Can't do that, with the necklace on," she pants, before reattaching her mouth to my neck. She has me pressed against some kind of door, holding me in position. Her hands press me back against the wood, and I step out of my furs, kicking them out of the way.

She surges forward, our bodies pressed flush against each other, as she slowly starts to work her way down my chest and stomach, kissing and biting as she goes.

"Oh god," I moan, and it's pretty much the last coherent thing I can think for a while. When she stands up again her mouth glistens in the ice-filtered light, twisting into a surprisingly shy smile. At last I can look around the room she's brought us to: it's clearly her bedchamber. More tastefully decorated than the troll-fashioned downstairs, the crowning glory is a large, four-poster bed. As the bliss and foggy happiness clears from my head, I try to regain control, pushing her down onto mattress and covering her body with own.

It's later, lying pleasantly spent and sweaty under her sheets, my head resting on her shoulder, arm and leg thrown over her possessively, that I make up my mind.

"Come back with me," I say, determined. "Come to the palace, and speak to my mother. Tell her about the wraith and the land without magic. Bring Henry too. I'll keep you safe." She stopped me from saying it earlier, but she seems in no mood to argue now. "I'd do anything for you."

Regina, the Evil Queen, scourge of my Kingdom and my mother's worst enemy, bends her arm to bring her hand to my hair, stroking gently at the messed curls.

"The feeling, dear," she says, eyes still closed, "is entirely mutual."


	12. Chapter 12

The combination of a real, proper bed and the warm body draped comfortingly across my own causes the time to slip away from me, running like shifting sand under my feet. We must sleep for hours like that, piled together in the Evil Queen's monochrome bed, but when I open my eyes the world outside the ice tower is as bright as before.

"Have I slept all night?" My voice is thick, groggy with sleep, and as the beauty in the bed beside me turns to me, stretching out along the sheets, I feel the pressure of sleep in the corner of my eyes and wipe it away.

"No, dear," she says. "This far north, at this time of year, the light can last for days." Her face is soft, unguarded, for a moment before a sly smile slips across her face and she stretches under me, her breasts brushing the flat of my palm. It seems to be becoming a habit - one that I'm sure will be hard to break - but I can't help but be distracted. So distracted that I don't hear the sets of approaching footsteps. I don't hear the quick, light tread of a boy. I don't hear the two heavier, more adult treads that follow. I don't even hear the door swinging open to grant the footsteps access.

"I told you not to hurt her!" I do hear the boy's, Henry's, shouts, and the impact of his body as he throws himself at us, knocking me off his mother and sprawling to the floor. I lie there, naked, on the floor, as he glares at me from the bed.

"Henry, sweetheart," she says, placing her hand on his shoulder, "Emma wasn't hurting me - we were just making friends." From the other side of the bed, Mulan snorts ungraciously. The Queen seems suddenly aware of the others' presence and pulls the sheets up across her chest.

"Huntsman," she says, "could you and my son go back downstairs, and prepare some dinner for our guests?" The man nods silently, but Henry protests until she dismisses him with a kiss and a firmly pointing finger. He goes reluctantly, mumbling under his breath. I climb back up onto the bed, sliding under the sheets, trying to preserve something of my modesty in the face of my companion's unflinching stare.

"I don't think this was part of your mission," she says. "In fact, I think it was the complete opposite of your mission. You were supposed to assess her as a threat, not as a lover!" She turns on her heel and leaves the room in a flash of anger and armour. I fall back against the pillows, hiding my eyes under my hand.

"That could have gone better," I huff.

"Mmm, but at least the worst is over."

"No - the worst will be my parents." She sits up, stiffening.

"Oh yes - your parents," she says, swinging her legs from under the covers.

"I think it's time we got up, don't you?" I reach out after her, catching her arm.

"Wait..." I trail off, unsure. Her expression is one I've never seen, hard and unflinching.

"I need to look after my son, Princess. And you need to get dressed." She stalks out of the room, naked, but behind the frosted ice walls I see a lingering purple haze, and know she has dressed herself.

I pull myself out of bed, every muscle protesting. Some of the ache, I know, is due to the travelling, the hours on horseback, on skis. But the delicious tightness between my legs, the pull in my inner thigh, those are reminders with every movement of just what I've done, and with who.

I worry, as I start through the corridor of ice, that I'll never find my way back to the room with my companion, my lover and her son. That I'll wander, lost, forever - or at least until the troll finds and eats me. Of course, that doesn't happen at all. The route from her bedchamber to that first room is surprisingly straight, with only a few unassuming doors leading off from it. I push open the door behind which I can hear voices, and step through to see a dinner table being set. All the people in the room turn to look at me, and for a second I kinda wish I'd just let the troll find me.

Not one of them smiles.

The Queen is already seated at the dinnertable. Mulan, the boy and the Huntman are in the room's corner, talking animatedly over a dagger. "

Hi," I manage, "smells good." The boy, Henry, glares malevolently at me across the table cloth. The Huntsman pulls out a chair for me, next to the Queen, and the others sit too, the Huntsman taking the other end of the table. The fact she eats with her servant surprises me. In all the stories about her, they made her out to be aloof, distant, a snob. Things have to be different, I suppose, out here in the provinces. The meal is beautifully cooked, even if it's eaten in almost perfect silence.

"Dessert?" Henry looks around, hopefully, eyes fixing pleadingly on his mother.

"I think we need answers, first," Mulan says, and the Queen and I nod together.

"I suppose you do. Where do you want me to begin?" Mulan's eyes cut to me, and the gaze of the other three follow. "Well, how about the start?" An impatient eye roll hurries me along.

"Where did you go? The last time you were seen was...before I was born."

"I assume, Princess, that you've heard of the rainbow bridge." She pauses, expectant, before continuing more impatiently, "It's something the people of the north used to believe in - a bridge between worlds."

"They used to believe?"

"Yes - they thought it went between this world and the gods."

"And does it?"

"Well, Princess, that depends on who you think the gods are." She dabs delicately at her mouth with a napkin, giving herself time to think. "It is true that there is such a bridge. It is also true that it links many worlds together."

"And you used it," Mulan says, and I can see the pieces slotting together slowly in her head, "to get to this world without magic." The Queen nods crisply.

"I did." She gestures to herself and the Huntsman. "We spent many years there."

"How come you're not old? You should be older than my mother, but you're not." Again, it's the wrong thing to say, but it's also the thing I have to know. That and why the Huntsman, her servant, eats at her table and lived alone with her for years in a foreign land.

I remember, now, my mother's story. How the Huntsman was supposed to kill her and bring back her heart, but was too soft and so lost his instead. They say the heartless are biddable, like golems or dogs. I suppose, for a lonely person, that might have advantages.

"Time passes differently there - both fast and slow. We lived there for years, and neither of us aged. I can't explain it, not properly." I nod, willing to let it go. After all, Aurora hasn't aged either.

"What did you do, in this land without magic?" Mulan's voice has lost some of its anger, its hardness, the edges softening in curiosity. Henry seems to hear it too, for he leans forward, eagerly.

"She was the Mayor," he says, voice full of smug pride.

"The mare?" I'm sure that can't be what he said, but the word is unfamiliar, and I struggle to catch it.

"The May-or." He enunicates each syllable, spelling the word out as though I'm stupid."She ran everything."

"A town," his mother intercedes, "I ran the town."

"What you just marched in there and took over?" I can't imagine how a stranger, one with such a dark past, could innocently assume control of a new and unfamiliar realm.

"Wouldn't be the first time she had," murmurs Mulan under her breath. The Queen must hear, for her eyes dart sharply to my companion, but when she continues her voice is as smooth as before.

"Of course not," she says, her charm returning full force, "they asked me to. I was elected." "Elected, like my mother's council." Again, there's a perceptible stiffening in her posture, and she sneers unreservedly.

"Not entirely - being an insufferable idiot isn't the only selection criteria." Most of them are, I'll give her that, but I can't help tensing in turn at the insult. "Anyway, we lived there for years, and now have returned."

"Why? Why did you come back?"

"I wanted to, OK?," says Henry, thumping his cutlery on the table. "Now can we have dessert?" His mother nods, and he and the Huntsman stand to clear our plates.

I wonder at the lack of servants. I suppose not many want to work for a supposedly dead evil queen in a cold castle that's still haunted by its former, smelly owner.

"He wanted to see a dragon," the Queen confides in hushed tones, conspiratorially. "I couldn't refuse." Her hand slides across to rest on my thigh under the table, like it had when she was a gypsy, and things were simpler.

"Did you leave his father behind, in that other land?" The hand on my leg flinches, but she shakes her head.

"No."

That leaves, I suppose, one other option. The Huntsman. I turn to watch him, trying to gauge his shaggy, scruffy appeal. I know plenty of girls back home who'd go wild for looks like that. And with years and years for him and his wet puppy eyes to grow on her, even a Queen might fall for him. As I think it, a wildly possessive surge rises up in my chest, and I pull away from under her hand.

Too fast, too deep, I tell myself. As always.

"No, Emma," she says, voice low, "no."

I ignore her, and spear a strawberry with my fork.

Dessert, I suppose, is as nicely done as the rest of dinner, but I barely taste it. Mulan asks further questions about the land without magic - Maine, the Queen calls it - and is answered, by all the others. The blood in my ears pounds angrily, and I don't hear what they say. I'm hot all over, working myself into a frenzy as I imagine their lives together. So comfy and close, so domestic. It makes me shiver with rage.

When dinner ends, and the boy leaves, gracing me with both a formal bow and a poisoned look, I scrape my chair back forcefully, standing. Even Mulan looks surprised at my lack of manners.

"There is a spare room, I suppose, for my companion and me?" The Queen looks at me, her eyes still and sad. When I don't back down, she sighs.

"The Huntsman will show you." I stomp along the corridor, my hate burning a hole in the back of the man's head. He opens the door, and I brush past him.

"You can go," I say breezily, showing him less consideration than I would any of my mother's palace servants. I hear him and Mulan confer in low, murmuring voices outside the door as I angrily undress, pulling the brush hard through the matted tangle of my hair.

I listen to his footsteps winding away, up the corridor. He could be going back to the dining room, or he could be going higher, to her bedcahmber, her bed. I wasn't watching him earlier, for a flash of hurt or jealousy as I rolled naked from his mistresses bed. I should have been.

Did they plan it together? Did they laugh and joke at my expense? Poor stupid Princess, they would laugh, driven by her urges and not by her brains. Let's see how far she'll go. They wouldn't be the first.

Mulan is watching me from the doorway as I pace and mutter to myself. I expect her to move, to begin silently preparing for bed, as she has all the other nights on the road.

"You're unbelievable," she says instead. "I never believed it. They told me you were like this - and I never believed them."

"Who, the court gossips?" I make my voice as nasty as I can, aching for a fight.

"Yes," she says plainly. "They told me you were capricious, that you needed to get your own way. There's a simpler explanation, Emma: you're spoilt." "Spoilt, is it? Is that what they say?"

"Spoilt. I think that troll down there could give you lessons in manners tonight. What the hell is wrong with you?" It's ridiculous, stupid, to hear her defending that woman. The Evil Queen, my family's greatest enemy, manipulative, sadistic, a consummate player of games.

Frankly, I tell myself, I don't give a shit if I've been rude. I owe that woman nothing. I don't care that just hours ago I'd lain in her arms and confessed...something. That I'd do anything for her, take that as you will. I've been used. I've been betrayed, and I'm angry about it.

"They told me, although I tried not to listen, that you were badly behaved. Incurably degenerate, was the phrase. That you were prone to fits of selfish rage and you spent your life drinking, gambling, whoring."

"Whoring?" I laugh mirthlessly, a snort working its way from the back of my throat. "You should ask her upstairs about that: parading that boy about like he's some kind of prince. When really he's just some bastard." It's unfair, I know, but as I said, I'm angry and want a fight.

"At least she kept hers, unlike you."

The slap is hard, open-handed, and loud. My hand falls from her face, and red marks spring up to take its place. My anger is gone, dissipated instantly, hollow regret filling its place.

"I'm sorry." She turns away and puts out the candle. I shift uneasily on my mattress, trying to make out her form in the darkness.

"I'm sorry I hit you," I repeat.

My words fall flat, and no answer comes. I lie there, thinking, listening to her tight, controlled breathing that might as easily convey anger or tears.

"I didn't have a choice, about the baby. I was eighteen - just - and unmarried. My mother arranged everything. One moment they were pulling it out of me, and then the next he was gone. We never mentioned him directly again." I think she won't speak, that my confession will just slide out into the night unheard.

"Who was the father?"

"A nobody. A soldier, in my father's guard. He spoke to me like I was normal." I laugh, quietly. "Like you do, I suppose. I don't think he knew who I was. He never knew. I heard, years later, that he was arrested for stealing, transported."

"What happened to the baby?"

"I don't know. I barely saw him. I've always called him William, in my head."

"William," she repeats, "that's a nice name." I nod, although she can't see me, and turn onto my back, staring up at the white ceiling.

"I did try to warn you, you know," she says after a while, "about the gypsy."

"I know."

"Night, Emma." I lie there for a while longer, staring blankly into the darkness. The castle is quiet, ghostly, and so the ripple of air is loud in comparison.

"Are you awake?" I grit my teeth, and turn my back on the soft voice.

"No."

"Find me on the balcony, I'll wait for you." The air ripples again as she leaves. I grind my teeth together as I lie, desperately wishing for sleep. In the end, as she knew I would, I throw back the covers, push my feet into my boots, and go looking for the Queen.


	13. Chapter 13

The castle corridors are empty, silent. I head back up towards what seems to be the main room. There, light filters through the walls and doors, casting an eerie glow.

The door is partially open, and I push through. The room is burning with candles, but empty. Across the other side I notice a door I've not seen before. It seems as though it should lead right through the walls of the castle into thin air.

The balcony, unlike the room, is not empty. There, leaning on the ice railing, staring out into the darkness, is the Queen.

In the distance, long clouds of light dance across the sky.

"What is that?" I ask.

"The lights? The trolls believe it's the souls of their dead, dancing." I, too, lean on the railings. The cold and damp quickly starts to leach through the material of my sleeves, but I make no move to pull away.

"But what is it, really?"

"Magic, Princess. Pure, ancient magic. Of the kind that made the world, and that keeps it together."

"It's beautiful."

"It is." We stand for a while, in silence, watching the show being played out above our heads. The air is cold, freezing, and our breaths billow out from us. I've got too used to the artificial warmth of the castle, and shiver violently.

"You're cold," the Queen says, and reaches out her hand to my arm. I flinch away, but she isn't put off, reaching for me again. Where her hand touches me, warmth spreads from her fingers up my arm. "The Huntsman is not Henry's father."

"But he is your lover." The warmth from her hand flares, uncontrolled, almost burning through my clothes.

"He was." Her voice is tight, strained. "Once."

"Not any more?"

"Not for a long time." I shift, moving closer to her, to her warmth. That's all it is, I remind myself sternly. The natural desire to share another person's warmth. It has nothing to do with whose warmth it is. Not at all.

"No?" She laughs, lightly, exasperated.

"Not since before Henry." I shiver again, despite the warmth still seeping from her hand. She pulls me closer, pressing my back against her front, and wraps her cloak around the both of us. Given how angry I've been, I should definitely protest, rip myself away from her. I don't. I lean back against the solid heat of her, my head resting on her shoulder, and together we stare out into the night. I wait, assessing how likely I am to be thrown off the balcony for asking the wrong question. On one hand, she could have killed me any time.

On the other, my childhood training screams at me: never underestimate a witch.

"So why now, really? Why come back right now?" She sighs, wrapping her arms tighter around my waist. At least, I think, if I'm going off the balcony, she's clearly coming too.

"I've been back before, you know," she says. "The Huntsman and I had been in the other land for almost 20 years. I thought things had changed. I thought I had changed."

"And you hadn't?"

"No. Turned out I hadn't. I disguised myself, and went down to the Enchanted Forest. There was a masquerade ball in the castle that night, easy to slip in unnoticed." I remember the evening well: my first public outing since I gave away William. My mother had thrown me at eligible guests, desperate to have me respectable, an unflinching smile plastered right across her face. "And there, right in the middle of the ballroom, the perfect, happy family. Snow, Charming, and their perfect, happy Princess. I hated it. Hated her happiness, hated that she had this family to be proud of and smile at, when I had nothing but work in a world that wasn't my home."

She pauses for a moment, hand tightening on my arms, and sucks in a breath of the cold air, sending it whistling past my ear. When she speaks again her tone is softer, happier.

"I'd given up on revenge, but I hadn't replaced it with anything. My life was so empty, and that's when I realised it, seeing you at that ball."

"I wasn't perfect," I say, twisting in her arms, "and I wasn't happy that night. I was miserable, in disgrace. You needn't have envied me." She smiles, sadly.

"But I did. Henry changed all that though, not long after. And you? Are you happier now?"

"I have been, Regina, these past few weeks. Despite the snow and the cold and being in both my mother and Mulan's bad books." We stand in silence, watching the lights in the sky. Eventually they fade, their colour washed out by the oncoming dawn.

"Come on," she says. "Breakfast now. And we'll discuss what you're mother's council wishes to know." At the doorway she stops, and half turns back to me. "And the other thing, about my son. I will tell you, one day. But there's no-one you need worry about, believe me."

Strangely, as I take her hand and follow her into her castle of ice, I do.

xxx


End file.
